


be unbroken or be brave again

by unorgaynized



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, F/M, Multi, flintwood-- but does that make it to screen? - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2020-09-06 11:30:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20290750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unorgaynized/pseuds/unorgaynized
Summary: In all defense, Cho really didn't mean to run into Ginny Weasley. Especially during the Quidditch match where their teams are playing against each other. Especially during their rest times. But the best-laid plans of exhausted former Ravenclaws rarely work, and Cho's got to deal with all of it.





	1. first night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pottervatch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pottervatch/gifts).

The match is not yet over, so Zhāng Qiū (best known in the UK as Cho Chang) is somewhat concerned as to why so many of the players are off their brooms and talking so easily, like half their teams aren’t still in the sky, battling with bat and broom for Championship. 

They’ve only been flying for fourteen and a half hours, after all. It is officially her longest Quidditch match, and she’d thought that being forced from brooms meant the players would go to sleep. Certainly not to drink, definitely not in the midst of the championship game for the League Cup. They’ve only a reprieve of six hours before heading back on at five.

She had had it planned out, down to exactly how long she had to rest after the match. True, the equation hasn’t quite been tested to such an extent as it was not now, but it’s also her first year as first-string Seeker. She’ll also have to readjust her equation if her training for the Swedish Broom Race isn’t up to par, but she thinks it will be. The largest Doxy in her mother’s antiques is this match, because Cho had been informed, with what had seemed like true grief, that Championship Matches did not go on for multi-day events in the British League. Actually, adjustments will definitely have to made, because in two and a half weeks she’ll likely wrap her broom around the tree if she keeps at the same rate she is now. The Broom Race is in less than two months, after all.

_“Make nice,”_ Marcus had said, before he abandoned her to glare at Wood, who had came to support the Harpies. Katie hadn’t been too pleased about that fact, and had tried to bully him into wearing some Tornadoes blue, but she’d said that Wood had then remembered what team Marcus was on and it would never happen. That had made her accept it, apparently, because Wood would rather play Seeker in a lightning storm than be on the same side as Marcus.

Truthfully, Cho thinks she’d missed a lot of their rivalry, only watching from the Ravenclaw sidelines, as it was. The men are still glaring at each other and there’s only one drink between them. Cho can only see this ending exceedingly well, or exceedingly terribly. Either way, it’s enough for a Warbeck-Jordan network drama. A multipart one, certainly, one that will last far longer than their match.

“You’re looking like you miss something.” A Harpies player drags a chair around, sitting on it in a casual straddle, and Cho admires the energy that the Chaser has for a moment before her eyes flick up to the freckled face. It’s Weasley— or Potter, maybe, she’s not sure which— there was a well-publicized wedding and the papers can’t seem to decide. She gives a searching glance for any of her fellow laid-off players to help her, but Marcus doesn’t look like he’s moving, and Katie is blocked by someone else.

“I’ll steal a strip, if that’s good with you?”

“Er,” Cho says in response, showing off her first-class education in etiquette by a demanding Madam Zabini, Scottish primary school, and Hogwarts. Her brain is momentarily frozen in response to Ginny Weasley’s strip of freckled and toned stomach, the long red hair falling over one sunburnt shoulder. “I. . .yes?”

Weasley takes the chip, partially dropping it in her mouth with what might be a. . ._wink_? It’s definitely a wink. Her bandaged fingers still hold the end, and Cho can’t help but watch the younger woman eat the fried potato bit. It’s surely a show, it has to be. There’s far too much— how should eating a simple greasy chip be satisfying enough to moan? Still, Cho’s stomach can’t help but stir in response. 

_Is_ it her stomach though? It has to be. She suddenly has to look somewhere else, anywhere else. Certainly not the play of muscle along Ginny Weasley’s should-be-illegally toned frame. Katie and Alicia Spinnet are having a very intense conversation in the corner, their heads dipping closer and closer to each other— _that is not a safe place to watch either, Qiū!_— before her face warms and she looks up to Weasley’s laughing eyes.

“Did I steal your words again?” Weasley looks impish and too damned awake. Cho wants to retort that that never happened, and just barely stops herself, remembering the Quidditch match when Weasley snatched the Snitch out from under her nose. It stings with reassured passion right now with the additional fact that Weasley plays Quidditch professionally as another position. Seeker was her secondary, and she still won that match so handily.

Cho favors her with a tight smile, but the words that come out aren’t really any good retort. “Well, we got each other’s exes, so I’m not sure either of us won that one.”

Weasley lets out a laugh that sounds an octave too hysterical to hide either the drinks or the exhaustion. “Michael Corner! Merlin’s saggy _tits_, I forgot about that. Does he still have that freckle fetish?”

Cho is somewhat lost for words this time again. What does she respond to first— that Weasley noticed her freckles or that she has seen Michael Corner recently enough to know that. It’s ridiculous to even consider, though Eloise did have freckles, she thinks. And Lisa Turpin too, though their engagement was ruined by Lisa’s sudden infatuation with Terry Boot, who had eyes for— who was it again? She can’t remember. But she has freckles and Ginny Weasley has freckles and Eloisa charmed hers on and Lisa, and-- “Medea, Circe, and Semiramis,” Cho breaths. “He _did_ have a freckle fetish.”

“I don’t hold it against him,” Weasley responds with a self-satisfied grin, one that Cho can all too easily see her wearing in bed. “I mean, look at us.”

And Cho does, before she can think better of it. She blames the exhaustion, really. The determination in her face, the casual confidence of her straddle, the V of hipbones sunkissed by brown spots, the roundness of chest under the Harpies wrap, the strip of unfreckled skin that her wedding ring likely rests on.

That brings her back, sudden and ice-cold. Ginny Weasley is married to someone, and Cho Chang (Zhāng Qiū) is dating someone. Not that Jae-gyu would mind, but she's sure Potter would, and they shouldn’t. They couldn’t. And—

“Where’s your husband?” Cho blurts out before she can think better of it. Now she absolutely knows she’s making a fool of herself, but right now, her second boyfriend would really be quite convenient, in that Cho would have an excuse to leave his wife and certainly have reason to stay away. But men, of course, much like Marcus and Wood—who have still not stopped glaring at each other— are mostly useless. 

“It’s a Harpies thing,” Weasley (or Potter? Potter, _surely_) says with a shrug. “You don’t see— or fuck— a man during a match, that’s bad luck.”

Cho holds back a sudden giggle, a sudden startle at the unexpected word. It fits, it’s hard and strong and confident like Gi—Potter! herself, but that really does sound disappointing. Lonely, too. Especially with that seven-day-match in 1953. “That sounds so lonely. What do you do then?” 

The question bursts out before she could stop it, before Cho can pretend that she never asked so infantile a question. They’re all adults, no hormone-crazed teens who stay in broom closets. They can survive a few days or a day without—

Ginny gives an absolutely filthy smile and waggles her fingers that Cho suddenly cannot take her eyes off of. They really are freckled, long and dexterous, though Cho doesn’t doubt they’ve been broken before, judging by scars and bumps. Calloused too, by wand and broom, Snitch and Bludger and Quaffle. She suddenly wants to feel them, just to see who has rougher hands, only for that and that alone.

“We also mess around from time to time.”

And that, that above everything else, brings Cho’s mind to a screeching halt. “You— I’m sorry, what?” It’s the exhaustion, surely. The exhaustion, and nothing more than that. Absolutely not. Nothing more. Except Cho’s mind is too tired to pull together her thrice-damned equation, and she can only remember it resembles a...parabola?

“No, I’m sorry, I was joking with you. Harry's on a case.” Weasley— Potter— looks apologetic. “Alicia and Angelina do mess around, I mean, and our Robins would leap into anything if invited while looking at Gwenog with these huge eyes, but it’s not really a team thing, right? We don’t actually have orgies.”

“Erm,” Cho says again, her face on fire. It probably matches Ginny’s hair. “I, erm, yes. No orgies. Rags and Skeeter gossip.” Words are taking far too long to string together and she’s fairly certain she’s about an inch from collapsing. Weasley says something but she can’t quite catch it, so Cho nods again like she understands. “See you on the pitch in a few hours?”

Ginny looks momentarily disappointed before regaining her composure. “If you can take your eyes off the Snitch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS MY BIRTHDAY GIFT TO YOU, CHARLY
> 
> Notes: this is set vaguely in like 2002/2003. Harry and Ginny have a great marriage (more on that later), James is not yet born. Ginny's played on the Harpies for a couple years now, Cho's a more recent addition to the Tornadoes. Marcus Flint and Katie Bell are on the Tornadoes, Angelina Jackson and Alicia Spinnet are on the Harpies.
> 
> Oliver Wood still plays on Puddlemere United, of course. he's first-string Keeper, and he and Marcus have a glorious rivalry that everyone takes bets on.


	2. second day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has a fair amount of hinny, so if that's not your thing, i am sorry! they are Soft and in love, and have a selectively open relationship because they talk and communicate things v well.

The clean crisp wind attempting to tear off her freckles, the _ crack_! of Bludgers against bats, the solid weight of a Quaffle— Quidditch, more than anything, is where Ginny is _ alive_. Or would be, if she hadn’t been flying for seventeen straight hours, and eighteen the day before this one. She barrel rolls under a blue player-- maybe Katie, maybe Dean, she can’t quite tell, that’s not a good sign-- only half for show. Quidditch is a quarter showwomanship, three quarters athletics, and seats wouldn’t sell as much if the players didn’t give a little flash. Besides, when matches have been going on for nearly forty hours, you need to play to the crowd so the bloody _ spectators _don’t get too bored. It helps wake her up some at least, which is really good, because she knows she wouldn’t survive either giving or receiving a body blow.

She’d started out her day as Seeker, squinting into the stars for the Snitch, but it’s been a tricky little fucker intent on staying out of sight. Ginny had hoped that the first-string Tornadoes Seeker would be on, thinking to surprise her, hopefully not unpleasantly. It was not to be, as she’d found herself facing off against a burly Seeker looking unfortunately awake for his fifth hour on. Blythe then claimed her position half an hour before Cho mounted her broom, and Ginny had downed a potent mixture of Pepper-Up Potion, Girding potion, and Wideye that may or may not be illegal to take for extended periods of time.

She likes Chaser better anyway, as her families know. But in all their trials, she worked better as a Chaser after being Seeker, than as a Seeker after being Chaser. Unfortunately, while Gwenog has arranged the team so that even after the first-string and Reserve are out they can still play, it’s damned exhausting. Gwenog’s having them go through all their positions as a show of intimidation, that angry all-woman team who can lose five players without a shrug. They are never ending, they are similar and easily replaceable, stoic and something to be feared. Against this, no Tornadoes player covers two positions, but they’ve a full fourteen who can start out rested, unlike the Harpies’ twelve who share positions. It _ matters _ that they have more and better-rested players, especially on a few hours of sleep.

There’s a cheer on one side of the stands, and Ginny risks a backwards glance. It’s a mix of blue and green, but that gives her nothing. The Snitch hasn’t been spotted yet by either Blythe or Cho, which means that the game is still going on, no sudden movements to death. The Quaffle’s in the hands of Valmai and Melza, and Gwenog has Katie cornered. Right now, she’s the flash, the distractor, the false lead to lead Beaters and rival Chasers on a merry little loop as she tries to look like she’s heading to push in a goal. That was the plan at least, wasn’t it? Her mind is struggling to keep Gwenog’s complex diagrams in hand, but she’s fairly sure at that, because Gwenog hasn’t called a timeout to scream at her. “Come on,” she hisses, hands tightening on her broom. “Look at me, look at me. . .”

Something brown and heavy flashes by her face, and seems to leave the air shivering; it takes Ginny a moment to comprehend what happened. She ought to have blinked at that, really, that’s not a good sign, that a bludger got as close as it did without a flinch. Her mind is sticky, and Ginny twists, trying to see who’d hit it. She would think. . . Milhoud, or Choudry, unless Gwenog was trying to wake her up, and she wouldn’t put it past her. Bloody hell, maybe it _ was _ Gwenog, trying to wake her up. Charlie would have done the same if he played Beater. It’s a comfortable homey thought that rattles around in her skull, proving she’s still at least partially able to have a coherent thought.

The Harpies are more like a family themselves, one of the smaller teams in the League. Gwenog’s something like the mother, the oldest sister who regularly gets drunk and into arguments, or the firewhiskey-drinking aunt, she’s not sure which. Recently, Gwenog’s gotten the bright idea for players to be able to play more than one position, better to keep it small and reliable. Sure, right now it feels like half their players are related, but they’re one of the most first-generation mage-friendly teams in the League. Even if they’ve only got Blythe and debatably Mila. Strictly not to tokenize, but Mila had blasted through Slytherin barriers her singular year as Keeper. It’ll look better if they win, especially with Warrington, Flint, and Montague-- and _ what the fuck is everyone looking at now? _

Ginny spiral dives down to another distracted cheer from the audience. She’s about ready to fall off, so that was a doubly bad idea, but the jolt of adrenaline is enough to shock her eyes open. No Omniculars will catch _ her _ drowsing while she plays, not like they caught Wilda Griffiths six matches ago. Her Quaffle senses are tingling, but Gwenog will have her head and possibly her arms if she lets someone take attention away from the game. There’s a distant cheer, but it’s from the Harpies side, so they’ve made a goal, but the audience is still distracted. This is serious, because if the Harpies score another goal, if the Snitch is caught, who the _ fuck _is disturbing her game, if it’s the Minister, she’ll-- 

It’s not Kingsley. The cause of the commotion, the attention-stealer she’d been furious about, is a tall man with messy dark hair and bright green eyes. There’s a new scar on her husband’s face, but it’s half-healed and likely to be uninfected. Harry’s face lights up, and Ginny--

It’s about time for her League-ordered rest, anyway. Blythe is doing well for now and seems reasonably able to both dodge Bludgers and not snatch at hallucinated Snitches, so Ginny won’t have to fly in. Not yet, at least. It’s been three weeks since she’s seen Harry, and she might as well see him when exhaustion’s weighing on her limbs so she’s not ambitious enough to grab some private time for him that cheap photographers would love to sell. 

Ginny shoves her hand in her robes, attempting to signal Gwenog that she’s not fit to fly anymore. It might be less of a lie than she’d hoped, as she reaches for the pocket lacking a flag, and that motion unbalances her more than she’d like to admit, and she might have had to. She keeps her balance with a spin, accidentally ripping out the pocket lining. It still makes a good enough flag and she waves it once, twice. Gwenog spots it, eyes still somehow damnedly sharp, and signals for a time out. 

The whistle blows and Ginny lands hard, skidding. Alicia soars up to the sky, rested and awake. The roar of spectators to the awaited reunion is meaningless noise in her ears, and Ginny forces her half-sleeping, half-dead legs to make it to her husband. Harry can’t come to her on the field, but he can and is heading for the field entrance. She ought to have dismounted closer, but she can’t get back on now her broom now, either physically or legally. She can make it. She can make it, she knows she can.

Her legs begin to cramp and Ginny hisses back instinctual tears, wiping them away impatiently. Is she imagining something, or is there another pair of almost more-accusing eyes on her as she makes her way to her husband? Ginny fights the urge to look back, look up, squint into the night for those dark eyes. She’s finally _ there_, stumbling into Harry’s arms, and Gwenog can turn her into a toad all she wants, Ginny kisses her husband until her legs start shaking below her. 

Harry pushes away gently, and Ginny resists the urge to pay him back for that by kneeing him. Not that she could and remain somewhat standing, but she would damnedly try. “Fine, we’ll go to the cot first.” 

Harry laughs, and her tired insides come back to a brief spark of life, twisting and flying like dodging Bludgers. She leans back in, his so-familiar scent of cheap soap, antiperspirant poultice, and sweat finding itself back to home. “I thought you’d like a little privacy.”

“Mmmph,” Ginny murmurs into his chest. “I don’t think I can walk that far on my own.” She’s not exaggerating, but she’d rather get back into the skies before she gets carried. Not while people still watch. She has her bloody pride but it feels steadily less important as she wavers on her legs. 

“Then it’s good I have magic and the ability to Appearate, isn’t it?” Her husband wraps his arms around her, and Ginny presses closer. She really wouldn’t be able to lift her screaming arms, even for this. She closes her eyes, hoping it’s not enough to push her to sleep, though she’s quite concerned it does until the jerk and squeezing remind her that she is, in fact, awake and conscious. Unfortunately, though she likely wouldn’t have slept very well for this. 

The mediwix’s already bustling against, and giving a steady stream of criticism that Ginny tunes out until Harry nudges her. She really could fall asleep standing like his, just in his arms, though his shoulder doesn’t make for the best pillow. They’ve both had much worse, though, so she shouldn’t complain about that. “Hmm?”

“How long were you flying?” The mediwix is looking quite furious at this point, and Ginny is fairly sure there’s an underlying layer of condescension in his tone. _ Longer than you’ve been on_, she wants to say, because most Quidditch mediwixen have charts of people who are flying so they players don’t have to answer themselves and it saves a lot of bloody time. 

Well, she had flown for. . .many hours today, and more yesterday, but with the five-hour sleep past midnight, what was he asking? It was a stupid question, and it was on the tip of her tongue to tell them so, when she found a hand over her mouth. It was definitely Harry’s, at least. 

“Long enough that Captain Jones let her off.” Harry answers it better than she would, a wry sort of humor in his voice. “I just arrived from Central Europe, and all I’ve been told is that she’s been on her broom most hours of the game.”

She won’t bite him for that, she supposes. He’s being nice, and it’s been really too long since they’ve been this close together. Only for that reason, though, and not because she’s tired and it would be too much energy.

“On the broom?” The mediwix spits a curse, and points to a cot. “Down, there. Don’t let her fall, we’re putting her on an eight hour bedrest. Auror Wea--Potter, the usual precautions are in here, but I want her _ sleeping _in the next ten minutes.” They stalk out as Harry hastily gave reassurances.

Harry finally removes his hand, using it to help Ginny sit. “I’m not an invalid,” she snaps, though more for pride than anything. “I’m bloody capable of sitting and lying down, and _ answering questions _ without being muzzled.”

“Did you hear that,” Harry responds with a grin. “He was going to call me Auror _ Weasley. _”

Ginny struggles to keep her eyes open, her irritation melting away. It was sweet; she hadn’t noticed that. Even now, she could see how being in a family-- a _ real _ family-- meant so much to Harry. He’d legally became a Weasley when they married, though her parents and brothers had taken him in years before. “Any second thoughts about changing your name, then?”

Harry gave a short laugh. “I told you, it would be too confusing in the DMLE with me and Ron.” 

“So he’s a Weasley-Granger.” Ginny pushes herself off. “You’re the Weasley, he’s the Granger, and Hermione’s still Granger, and you keep track of it that way.”

“I don’t think we can convince Ron to do that. He’s got it in his head that Hermione thinks it’ll sound better the other way, and it’ll take too much work to respond to his new name.” Ginny gives a short grin, her eyelids heavy. She’d stay up ten more minutes, just to spite the poor excuse of a mediwix. 

“Tell Ron I said he’s a coward. How did your mission go?” She was curious about that. Spelled as the tent was, no one would be able to overhear, even with the latest Extendable Ears. It wasn’t really breaking confidentiality when she could blackmail Ron into telling her, or bribe Kingsley. She would, especially as this one had been annoyingly long.

“I had to go to Czechia.” His voice is low, a comfortable rumble. “There’s a former Death Eater, she fled there. She wasn’t a very powerful or high-ranking one, so she was a bit lost in the scramble, but she thought that since she was Czech, she’d have some diplomatic immunity.” His voice turns wry. “She absolutely did not. Their Ministry was falling over itself to hand her over, once they pulled enough evidence together. Then she tried to insist she was royalty, though of a kingdom that had been Muggle and only really lasted. . .oh, less than a century. St. Grogery’s was good for something other than maths as it turned out, and it was the oddest and most random bit of trivia I’ve ever thrown out in an arrest.”

Ginny gives a laugh. “That’s too funny. What else did she have?”

“She seemed to think knowing a few spells made her some type of . . special magic person. She wasn’t too talented at them, so. .” Harry intertwines his hand with hers. “You’re supposed to go to sleep. 

“Not tired.” Her eyes are closing though, those filthy little betrayers.

“Is there anything that happened while I was out? How was Teddy?”

“A dream, though he said you were more fun to play with.” Her words were starting to slur together, which . . .admittedly she couldn’t find the emotional availability to be irritated at. “And I re-met someone. I think I like her. Maybe she likes me too.” The last sentence was more mumbled into her pillow, but she knows Harry would pick up on it.

“She’d be mad not to. How did you meet her? She’s not a fan, is she?” There's both pride and worry in Harry’s voice, which is fair, as the both of them have dealt with some very determined fans who very much liked to get into their private lives. Ginny has had to subdue someone waiting for her in her shower, after all.

“No. She plays. ‘Nados. Not Katie.” The pillow's really calling her name, and all her bones are crackling comfortable. The insides of her eyelids is quite tempting, a siren song she can't deny much longer. 

“Who, then?” 

Ginny tries to say Cho’s name, but she finds blackness before she could open her eyes again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am sorry for the lateness!! i procrastinated by making a family tree and then by making a quidditch positions chart, and then an order of switch-offs. I'd be happy to share if you're curious!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CHARLY!!!

Cho was hoping that Ginny Potter would be coming out, that their schedules would synch up again, but it really seems that since Potter’s arrival, they’d fallen out of schedule. She’s only been on the broom for five and a half hours, and so is relatively well-rested, compared to the hellish mess the Harpies had turned themselves into. 

She’d flown first against Blythe P(orter? olly? ertkid?), who’d then been switched out for the rather exhausted Keeper, who herself had been relieved by someone who had been playing as Chaser. Alicia Spinnet had taken up the mantle of Chaser, which made sense at least, because Spinnet had at least _ played Chaser _ at school. The Harpies were mostly flying Reserve for positions, more or less. Jones had been forced off the field for bedrest, which had rejuvenated the Tornadoes players until they’d found out her replacement was her bloody _ niece _who looked no older than fifteen. The damn Jones arms were something that ran in the family, the same sort of wild, pointed viciousness in seeking out targets. Crabbe had been taken out by Laurent, and replaced by a girl who also looked Hogwarts-aged. Angelina Johnson was on her own League-mandated rest, replaced by a girl Cho doesn’t recognize, but is fairly certain she’d seen flying around as Beater.

She thinks, at least. Everything really feels dreamlike in this dark, and Cho is flying against a bloody _ Keeper _ for the Snitch. Marcus would never let this happen, even as Brevis had suggested that they try for this match, just in case. Who even is their Captain, with half the original team in positions they knew less, where they’d be more likely to have injuries? Why can’t they simply be a _ normal _team, and not have their first-stringers playing positions they weren’t as trained for? 

Something flitters at the edge of her eyesight in the dark, something metallic and harsh. She can’t hear anything, lost in this dreamy land of exhaustion buried deep in her bones, covered by adrenaline and recent rest that couldn’t heal it. It’s here. It’s there. It’s in her grasp, and Zhāng Qūe is not losing a Snitch to a _ Keeper_, by Rabnott’s Saving Hand. Not like she’d lost one to a Chaser, all those years back. Still, the Harpies (Keeper? Third Seeker?) spots it, and through some impossible feat of flight that must have been how she could fly Seeker, has woven her way to Cho from halfway across the Pitch. Cho makes a mental note to ask how she did that later, but nothing else matters than the sparkle hovering near a goalpost. Nothing. It’s not near enough to stretch out her hand, but Cho shifts her balance, iota by iota. This is what she’s known her, her microadjustments. She’s delicate poetry in motion right now, a nightbird in flight, she knows this, the Snitch will be hers by her miniscule repositionings that will send her--

Only someone to scream into her ear. She tenses automatically, thighs gripping tightly, and something?one? slams into her, sending her hurtling into her Harpies opponent. A wild pain erupts in her side, and she rolls in the air, spins in an effort to keep the seat of her broom without flying off. If not for the scream, she would have fallen, loose enough to stand a bludger but not what had just crashed into her. A whistle blows, but by the time Cho’s found her seat, Brevis has already fallen to the ground with blood leaking from his skull and the two small Beaters of the Harpies have already started searching for the next Bludger.

The Snitch has vanished, because of course it has. Another whistle shrieks, signaling a time out, and Cho lowers herself down in a lazy spiral of movement. It hurts to breathe, and her arm is a rictus of pain. “What happened?” she demands of her teammates, of Marcus specifically. It hurts to draw breath, but she needs to know. Everything is still dazzling in her ears and eyes, a scattered picture refusing to meet its pieces together. 

“Dopplebeater Defense,” Marcus answers. “Unintended, it seems.” He glances at their team. “Brevis is out, maybe for the rest of the game. Anyone have a complaint with my ascension?”

“Nay,” Cho quickly agrees. Graham shrugs his approval, and Laurent taps his bat with Ritchie Coote’s. Winona makes a V of her two longest fingers, giving a hazy grin. Cho isn’t really sure what that fully means, but she’s had two years to understand she won’t ever understand Winona Robins. 

“Captain I am, then.” He searches along their bench of Reserves still available to play. They’re still mostly their first-string, thanks to Brevis and Marcus’s extreme scheduling. They still have their first string Keeper, a Beater, Marcus, and her. They’ve only got Graham and Ritchie flying from Reserve. 

Her arm sends a new lash of fire down as Cho attempts to lay her hand out for Marcus’s attention. That’s. . . not good, really. Brevis had to have knocked into her, hurt her more than she thought. She gives an experimental breath and nearly curls over in pain. 

“Chang.” Marcus jerks a finger towards the field mediwix. “You’re off. Two hours’ rest.” 

“No!” she protests, not as strongly as she’d like. Ginny still isn’t on. It would mess up their meeting even more. She’s still good to fly, she just needs-- Flint, spawn of a troll’s _ arse that he is_, lifts her arm up. Cho sways, black spots dotting her vision and threatening to take over. “I’ll take three minutes to heal,” she says. Tries to say, at least. It comes out somewhere between a wail, a moan, and a scream.

“_Off_.” He repeats, waving over the Healer. She can make that out through her tears at least, almost as much as she can see _ the traitor she voted for _ bringing _ Eurig Cadwallader _to take her spot on the field.

Her broken arm is fixed quickly enough, but her cracked ribs apparently require longer. She’d still able to fly, she knows this, she’d just be a little more sensitive on one side. She knows that can be taken advantage of, and she will be targeted, but she doesn’t care. She’s a grown woman, and she can fly for the hour it will take her ribs to fix themselves. She also knows Marcus did that to seize whatever bits of rest he can have the team take against Jones’s team of exhausted flyers, give them an advantage, _ but did it really have to be her. _

Cho takes a breath, heading back into the refreshment area. She knows she-- she was being toyed with, she was sure. Ginny Potter was being friendly to a former rival, and she read too much into it. She’d seen Potter stumble off the field into the arms of her husband like she was dying of thirst and he was a well to drown herself in. She shouldn’t feel hurt. She shouldn’t feel betrayed, feel--

It’s not jealousy, she tells herself. She’s _ seeing someone_. Potter is married, and married to _ her _ex. She wants love, it’s only that. She wants to love someone who loves her back, without the nervousness that casual dating is made of. She hasn’t had that since she was fifteen, years ago in Hogwarts when a handsome grey-eyed boy asked her to the Yule Boy and she’d felt like she was flying. She wants safety, she wants security, and someone to come home to. 

Maybe she’ll try to commiserate with Gouzhi. If he isn’t still in the stands with his team, watching the game. She doesn’t know if she wants that or not-- she wants to know what happened, but she really wouldn’t say no to talking with her cousin, even if he is a rival at times. 

“You look like Gwenog ate you up and spat you out,” a wry voice greets her.

Cho jerks to attention, because Ginny Weasley is standing against the wall, arms folded, and a grin on her freckled face. “I try to avoid your Captain,” she says stupidly, lacking the filter that normalcy provides.

“Getting hit by her is much of an experience, I agree,” Weasley says. “It’s happened more than I’d like, and I’d prefer for it to not happen again, but I still practice with her all the same. She doesn’t really try to hurt us then, it just happens.”

“Erm?” Cho clarifies, very solidly. 

“Flint takes it easy on you in practice?” Ginny’s skeptical. “I’ve heard from my brothers he wouldn’t rest until he’s as hard as Oliver.”

Cho searches Ginny’s face for any sign of innuendo, only to find her face flushing instead. “That’s. Not usually how our practices go.” She clamps her mouth shut, before she can raise a token resistance that Brevis is still their Captain or give away any secrets of their training. Marcus would _ skin _ her if she mentioned anything.

“Anyway,” Ginny says, “I’ve still got time on my ordered time out. I woke up to quite a lot of shouting, and I feel really out of the loop. You’re the first player to come in since then, and none of us know what happened.”

Cho pauses, words on the tip of her tongue. She runs through it. Maybe Ginny will understand how in Circe’s name their player order worked enough to make Cho understand it. “I can’t quite remember all their names with all the switching, but I was flying Seeker against your Keeper,” she begins.

“Blythe Parkin’s not in yet, and I’m out. That’s good,” Ginny gives another grin, one that should make her nervous about her team's chances. “Mila Bletchley-Higgs is Seeker, and ‘Fach-- Gwenhwyfach Morgan-- is Keeper. She was on when I left, I think. . .”

“She changed from Chaser to Keeper when your Bletchley-Higgs stopped. I don’t know how long she’s been flying, though I don’t think she can last much longer.” Why she’s saying this, she doesn’t know. Ginny plays both, and she should keep her occupied with any sort of talk, not get her out to the field. Still, if Ginny’s helping her out with the names, that 

“Who’re the Chasers? I can guess, but I’d like to be sure.” Ginny’s brown eyes (lovely, dark, warm) shine for a moment. 

“I-- I don’t know their names, and it's still dark out. Pale, with dark hair, young--”

“That’s not very descriptive, but probably Demelza Robins. She’s Winona’s cousin, and also on the Beater strings, if you’re thinking she’s familiar. Usually Lysandra Crabbe’s reserve, so she can fly with Gwenog. Melza's two years younger than me, was in the DA second time around.”

“That wasn’t a hallucination, her flying Beater?” She really shouldn’t be surprised her mind hadn’t made it up. Or Winona’s apparent cousin’s familiarity, though she’s not sure if she remembers a mention by name. Actually, if she’d ever seen the Harpies reserve, she thinks she would have assumed they were friends of the herbalist variety. That’s certainly interesting that they’re cousins, because she _ knows _they’ve faced each other this game. “I thought it was lack of sleep. Spinnet’s on, and so’s your other Chaser.”

“Valmai Morgan.” Those warm brown eyes shudder shut. “Our replacement, still on from the ‘90s game when Puddlemere United stole Griffiths from us. That’s her only position. She’s the most well-rested. Good team they’ve got on. Beaters look titchy?”

“Hogwarts-aged,” Cho agrees with some surprise Ginny thinks the same.

“Clio Jones and Nia Herraro-Morgan. Clio was one of my girls on the Gryffindor team. She’s Gwenog’s niece, and she does the name proud. I don't know if you remember Hestia Jones from the Battle? Her niece as well. Nia’s Slytherin, Valmai and ‘Fach’s niece, great-granddaughter of two of the ‘53 players.” Ginny gives a worse grin. “They’ve hated each other since before they were in diapers, and Clio punched Nia when they were first introduced as--you know, Clio really had to be a newborn, actually. I shouldn’t be given away Harpies secrets like this, but I’m really one of the few they’ll stop arguing for. They can’t ever--”

“Their Bludger hit my Captain,” Cho says coolly. The puzzle pieces fit together-- is Potter trying to feed her falsehoods in the hopes she’d tell them to Marcus and lose the game? “A Dopplebeater Defense, and they got him in the head. They aimed for me, and Brevis Birch took the hit in hopes I’d get the Snitch.” She pauses, remembering his body. “They got his head.” 

“He’s still alive, isn’t he?” Potter bursts out. “I mean, _ is _he?”

Cho considers. She really hadn’t heard anything either way, but she’d probably have heard if her Captain was dead. Probably. Marcus wouldn’t have asked for a vote to be Captain, at least. “No, though they possibly ended his Quidditch career.”

Potter holds up her hands, as if asking for an apology she’d never deign to do. “They really hate each other too much to do that on purpose, if it’s any consolation. If they planned it, they couldn’t resist hitting each other instead. That was probably the aim, and the hit was a surprising bit of luck.” She lets out a sigh, throwing her hands higher. “And I _ missed it _ because of the fucking bedrest! Everyone will be talking about it for _ months_, and the damned Healer--”

She should be annoyed by the callousness, by the Potter’s irritation at not witnessing the hit. But Cho finds she can’t be-- something about the emotion, so uncomplicated and true, enthralls her. Ginny doesn’t pretend to offer sympathy, she’s from the Harpies and a Captain who flew on the National Team being out of the game is a good catch for them. She misses that, the honest emotions that she’d wished she’d had during other times. Brevis is sort of her friend, but-- he’d understand. He was the same. Respect towards a fallen opponent, though not at the loss of taking advantage of the loss. Marcus would certainly do the same if they got Jones out permanently-- actually, Marcus would probably throw a party when the game was over if they won. “I think it looked like they were aiming for me. Brevis intercepted because I was flying for the Snitch with Bletchley-Higgs. . .”

“It’s not your schedule,” Ginny says suddenly, eyebrows rising. “You told me they got Birch. It’s not that I’m not pleased to see you, but why are you here?”

Cho’s heart does some impressive acrobatics. Ginny _ remembers _ her schedule, even after she’d been off the field, remembers it well enough to know it’s not time, said she was _ pleased _ to see her. And at the same time, is asking why she’s here, as if she didn’t want her to be there. Still, at the same time, she’d looked happy to see Cho. Surely that meant something? No, it could mean nothing, especially because Potter was _ married_. “Brevis intercepted, as I said. He slammed into me as it hit. Replacement Captain Flint sent me for a rest of two hours.”

Ginny’s eyes soften. “Ribs are the bitch. I woke up too soon and couldn’t fall back asleep, so I came back here.” She gives an unselfconscious shrug, easy confidence rippling off her. “I missed the action. Let’s grab a table.”

“Just us?” The question that comes out of her mouth is certainly not what she meant. “I mean to say, not with your teammates?”

Something glitters in Ginny’s eyes, something rather more mischievous than Cho would like. “Just us, Cho. Scared?”

She’s momentarily lost for words. “No, I just-- you really wouldn’t prefer your team? Crabbe-- or Angelina Johnson, or-- even Wood?” She can’t make herself say _ or your husband_.

“What’s going on, Cho? Do you not want to talk to me?” Ginny’s grin grows wider, wicked. She tilts her head, stretching out a freckles hand, and Cho tries to ignore the rather showy breath that the other woman takes. It doesn’t fool anyone, especially the woman in question, and Cho has the sudden sinking feeling she’s in over her head.

“I only want you to feel comfortable,” she manages to make herself say.

“These robes are a bit hot when we’re not flying, but I don’t suppose we can go streaking around,” Ginny says casually, and Cho can’t stop the blush that heats up her face.

“My cousin Gouzhi is here,” she responds, mind scrambling for something even halfway clever to say. She was one of the brighter Ravenclaws in her year, and she’s undone to a few incoherent sentences. It’s the length of the game. It’s nothing else. It can’t be. She remembers how she used to have this effect on people, but how had she dealt with this? It’s unintentional, surely. It has to be.

“That’s not quite a No,” Ginny teases, taking Cho’s hand to wheel them to a table. Cho tries to glance around for someone, anyone she can turn to to stop this furious burning, this spread of warmth that is probably embarrassment. She distracts herself by sitting down and glancing at Ginny.

“It’s also not yet a yes.”

Ginny’s mouth falls half-open for half a second before pulling up into a grin that is decidedly more catlike that not. Cat who got the cream, and definitely reevaluating Cho. “Not _ yet_, Miss Chang? I would never have expected that from you.”

“You’re convincing enough,” Cho manages, trying to remember how she pulled the muscles of her face around all those years ago when she was still fairly decent at flirting. She really shouldn’t be flirting with a married woman, but it’s been happening for a while now, and if Ginny felt uncomfortable, she would have stopped it. Surely. Curious, she leans towards Ginny, lowering her voice. “You can’t convince me to throw the match, but I’d say there’s other things you might be successful for.”

Ginny lets out a low laugh that warms Cho’s bones, and a pale shade of sunburn blooms on her freckled face. “Right, Quidditch is out of it,” she agrees at once. “But you’ll hold me back if Wilda Griffiths shows her horrible face won’t you?”

“Promise,” Cho says solemnly, trying to ignore the sudden harsh tingling in her lower stomach as she tries not to picture the scene. Ginny certainly wouldn’t make it easy, she knows. “Marcus would kill me for not holding him back from Wood, but it’s a risk I will simply have to take.”

“You’ve noticed he’s not here, don’t you?” Ginny lowers her voice conspiratorially. “Why do you think that is?”

“I’d’ve thought you knew,” Cho lets a smile of her own slip. “He goes to every one of our games, always watching Marcus. Seizing up the competition, and Marcus does the same. You won’t find him in here until Marcus is forced through those doors.”

Ginny laughs. “I’m surprised they’ve been. . . quiet. PU isn’t fond of either of us. I was almost disappointed when they lost to the Prides.”

Cho shares a wince with her at that memory. Marcus claimed up and down that PU were their greatest rivals, but in one of their first games of the season against the Pride of Portree, Dougal McBride had snatched the Snitch within the first few minutes without either side having scored a goal yet. It was every Seeker’s worst nightmare. It had only been great luck that the Snitch was so near to him, enough so that he’d been strenuously examined for any luck-altering potions or makeshift wands. 

“My cousin Gouzhi’s one of their Beaters, and he wanted to see me. Jeremy Stretton and I played together, so he’d like to me have a go, the same with Roger Davies. Adrian Pucey’s a former teammate of Marcus, Graham, and Warrington, and she made Terance come with her. Then he wanted to take his wife Faye, and Urquart couldn’t stay away if most of his former team was there.” Cho’s familiar enough with the Slytherin side of PU, and Marcus’s hatred didn’t extend enough to stop them from heading to a Pucey-Higgs party. Something occurrs to her, and she pauses. “Your Bletchley-Higgs isn’t a relation, is she?”

“Mila? Oh, Circe’s tits, no. Coincidental name, her father’s muggleborn. She’s Miles Bletchley’s cousin, from a Squib mother or something like it, and was his Reserve in Hogwarts. I think they graduated at the same year.” Ginny leans forward, her hand slipping over Cho’s. “She’s the better Bletchley, if I say so myself. And, hmmm, Alicia came to see Katie and Angelina, of course-- and me--, and Lizzie Striker’s friends with Melza and Win, or close enough, so that’s over half the team there. If Griffiths showed her face, I’d think they were planning something, but this is a pretty decent bunch, actually. Erika Rath just likes violence, but that’s normal.” She looked momentarily hazy for a moment, lips parted, eyes distant. “Us Harpies can appreciate that.”

“And then O’Flatherty and Applebee were friends of,” Cho’s mouth twists in distaste. She still wishes she was on the field. “Cadwallader.”

“Your reserve,” Ginny sing-songs. “I’m glad you’re here, if nothing else. How much time do you have left?”

“I'm not sure,” Cho admits. “Marcus drives us hard. He’d probably want me resting.”

“Aren’t you?” Ginny’s thumb rubs Cho’s in a massage, and Cho wants to melt into her footwear. She clamps her mouth shut, trying not to let out a moan.

“Not how he’d want. He’d want a bed, not my competition.” She knows what she’s left open the moment she’s said it. She can’t find it in herself to regret it.

“I’ve got an empty bed,” Ginny offers solemnly, “and there’s no saying there can’t be both.”

This is-- this is too much now. She can’t. Not now, not ever. Flirting was all good and fine, but this, this-- it feels more serious, feels more real, feels more dangerous in how tempting a thought it is. “You’re _ married_.”

Something flits across Ginny’s face, and she bursts into laughter. “You’re-- I-- you thought--”

Qūe snatches her hand away, feeling small. She needs to melt away, to vanish. She’ll bully Marcus into letting her back on, throw herself on Gwenog Jones in the hope that she’ll spare her, and not put Potter as Seeker. She’s never been so embarrassed to have so completely misread the--

“Cho! No, I didn’t mean-- we’re not monogamous!” Ginny herself sounds embarrassed, though Cho can’t bring herself to look at her. “Harry and I, we love each other. We do.”

Cho wants nothing more than to erase the last five minutes of her life. She needs to quit the team suddenly, run from Quidditch and racing and never look back to just avoid this conversation and never have something like it.

“Look at me, Cho, _ please_. We don’t keep secrets, Harry _ knows_. Sometimes, you know, there’s a pull towards someone else, and it’s-- look, we married so young. We don’t regret it, but we want to make sure we’re not stifling each other, that we haven’t made a mistake, especially as Harry found out he’s into men after we married. I don’t want to close that door for him, he doesn’t think it’s fair if I’m not included.”

Cho can’t bring herself to say anything. So she was-- this is almost worse than being some sort of game, being something a middle, being-- but still, she can’t break away from images. She should be furious. She should be angry, cold and hard, grasping whatever scraps of dignity she has left around her. But she can’t do that, too mixed between her heart flaring and falling, because aren’t she and Jae-Gyu not exclusive as well? How can she be upset-- but that’s a _ marriage_, it’s _ different_.

“I see Laurent,” she makes herself say, as she sees her teammate make his way through the door. “He has some pictures of his twins he promised to show me, and our breaks haven’t aligned yet.” She needs to think, she needs air, she needs to be away from Ginny Weasley-Potter’s scorchingly attractive face and the expression on her face that makes her feel like she’s hexing a baby Kneazle in front of Winona. “Maybe I’ll see you on my next one.”

“Wait, Cho--”

“See you later.” Cho pushes herself up, heading for Laurent who had made no such promises, but who wouldn’t be forcing her to go back like Winona would. “On the Pitch, maybe.”


End file.
